The Seeds Of War
by like-an-officer-and-a-sergeant
Summary: Usually, the seeds of war means the incidents leading to a war, but I mean the seeds that were sown in the WW2 and grew into things after the war. A slightly alternative take on Patrick Turner's war experience and the new Turner Family in 1959. No polio, no grey dress. A white wedding at Christmas with all the nuns and nurses. The characters are not the same as in my other fics.
1. Chapter 1

1. The New Surroundings

Shelagh woke up. It took a while to get the sense of her surroundings. She was wearing some flannel, yes, and sleeping on a sofa.

Then it struck her. She felt a little flush on her cheeks. She was in Patrick's and Timothy's house. Sleeping on the sofa. The bomb scare seemed a distant thing for her, in the light of this much bigger event, sharing the roof of her husband-to-be and son. Yet a bigger event awaited on the day after tomorrow. Their wedding. She shivered at the thought, rose and started to dress. The new, "normal" clothes still seemed a mystery to her. The skirts and...silky stockings. Yes, she had bought a pair of them.

Then she noticed the light that shone from the edges of that closed kitchen hatch. All the kitchen doors had been considerately closed by Patrick at the night, to give her some privacy. Someone was up.

She finished her dressing up, and gave a tentative knock on the kitchen door.

"Patrick, is that you? What time is it?"

The door opened and she saw Patrick, dressed in his shirt and trousers. No waistcoat, no jacket, no socks. His bare feet touched Shelagh...so bare and homely. A new sight. A new country. Hers. Or soon-to-be hers. "I have to think of something else," she told herself hurriedly, and smiled at him.

"Shelagh, it is 6 am. You should have slept more. Was the sofa not comfortable? I told you I could have taken it!" He clumsily hugged her for a while, then released her, still keeping her by the arms and watched her carefully.

"Patrick, remember that you're talking to a nun...sorry, to a former nun," she speedily corrected.

He chuckled and did not let his grip on her loosen. "What does that mean, in this case...?"

"I am used to waking up at 5am. The time of Matutina. This is actually late for me."

"Of course." Suddenly he was a bit remorseful. "I really should know more about the life of nuns. I mean, your life. Arggh. You know what I mean...".

"Do you have some tea for me? You know nuns eat and drink, too, don't you?" Shelgah thought a happy banter might do at this early hour, to avoid further embarrassment. She sat down by the table and he hovered over her breakfast like a waiter at a first-class restaurant.

After some tea and toast and smiling into each other's eyes, he said:

"You're fully dressed, too."

Shelagh sighed. "It is difficult to get used to the...normal clothes. A habit was so much more...convenient. The stockings, shoes, handbags...I am not really that kind of a girl-"

"But you look great in your new shoes."

"Well, yes, I had to get something. To be a respectable Doctor's wife."

"To me you are always respectable. Among other things...". She felt ambushed by the shine in his eyes. She decided to engage into battle on another front.

"So, are YOU usually fully dressed at 6am...?"

He gave her a sly look and burst out laughing:

"No dear, I am not. But you were using my best, brand new pyjama. I couldn't let you see my normal disheveled look at 6 am. Besides, I am not fully clothed. I need a waistcoat. Or a jumper."

But Shelagh didn't let him lead her astray. Although that neck and a part of his chest that his open shirt let show nearly did.

"And why would you have bought yourself a new pyjama, my Doctor dear...?"

He was squirming. He laughed embarrassed.

"You are not that much of a dresser, are you? " she continued. Now she was suddenly finding it hard to keep this comedy going. She had felt so bold and easy, as she always did with him, and his good humour was catching. But she had to gulp, and he noticed that and his demeanor became very gentle.

"Shelagh, dear, anything you'd like to ask..."

_[A censored part, one of the many talks they had before their wedding that are private...]_

"Now, good. Once we got that one cleared, are you usually up this early? I know nearly nothing of your daily habits. Are you an early bird?" she inquired.

He seemed to withdraw. He gave her a searching look deep into her eyes. Then he let his eyes wander until they looked into a distant spot somewhere where she couldn't reach him.

Then he straightened his back, became present and alert again and asked her:

"Shelagh, what did you do in The Great War?"

"I think I was not born yet. You were 4 years old when that war ended."

"Sorry, I meant this last war. The phrase just came to me. You know I like to talk of the Somme... My father survived that war."

"The Somme?"

"No, the war in general, his experience was not that bad. " He stopped. "So, before 1948, the arrival of the excellent Sr Bernadette, what was it like for you? The war I mean."

"I was at a nursing school for four years in Aberdeen to 1947. One year at the Aberdeen hospital after that. Before that, at my family farm. But I thought you knew that. We've talked of this before."

She was slightly taken back. It wasn't long ago they had had a chat about that, although admittedly in the presence of Fred at the tea table at Nonnatus House. Fred had seemed eager to change the topic from the war to his grandchildren and to his dancing hobby, and how it had been great when the dancing halls where in full swing after the war. But she had thought it was because Fred didn't like to talk of the loss of his wife and the distress of his children at wartime.

"Aberdeen? Oh yes. It must have been relatively peaceful there, wasn't it?"

"Yes, no bombings. Just the general angst and lack of everything. Poor food. Cold."

"Whereas in Italy...". He stopped and seemed not to be able to continue.

"What about Italy?"

He pulled himself together. "You see, I am not really an early bird...The bomb scare...the expectation ...of explosions...that makes me wake up early. Sometimes. Because of Italy." The words that came out seemed calm. Yet there was a strained quality in them.

Shelagh studied his mien hard. It was inscrutable.

"So you have experienced explosions in Italy. Of course. "

But Patrick didn't seem to be inclined to go further. He rose up and started to pick up the dishes.

"Sorry, old girl, we don't have time. We have a wedding to attend to soon, remember", he grinned. But then he slowed down and forgot the dishes. "You should hear me and Fred talk sometimes. About explosions. Let's take this up again at some later moment."

Shelagh seemed concerned. But she decided to follow his lead."Yes. Let's do that."

"Now. The washing up, the barber...and you have quite a lot to do as well, my beautiful bride."

"Oh yes...But, Patrick." He put his arms on her arms, drew her close and looked into her eyes, smiling, guardedly at first, but then with so much expectation that she blushed. "Patrick, I want to be a proper wife. I want to hear about you. Not just talk with Fred and you. You understand that, do you?"

He leaned in to kiss her lips tenderly, and for a while the world, the war and everything was lost.

"Yes, my proper wife. That you will be. You will hear about me. We will find a way."


	2. Chapter 2

**I apologize to all Scottish people and dancers, I may have made mistakes with the terms of Reel. I will study more and may make a corrected version later. Right now, too delighted in the buzz of Ceilidh to care...**

**2. Nobody ever lost anything by looking for the answers**

Patrick restrained himself. He was walking down the main Poplar street in the twilight. He had this urge to take a few dance steps. He had already once inadvertently taken one, but had at the final moment managed to disguise it as a skip over a puddle of water. A respectable middle-aged man, he was not allowed be found like that, giddy or gaudy, in the district he worked in.

The word had got around that he had been so joyous and light-headed on the day of his wedding. Although they had invited only a few guests (some relatives and the entire Nonnatus house), it had still stirred the community. Although people were too respectful of him to talk publicly, he suspected that the Scottish Reel, the only dance Shelagh had consented to have at the small reception, had caused some ripples. The violin group organized by Timothy had been the original orchestra, but Fred had brought some drums, a cornet and an ukulele, and with the help of Alec and Cynthia, they had formed an improvised, but also a quite loud band. Jenny and - surprise, surprise - Sr Evangelina had taken shifts in playing with the help of the new nurse recruit Patsy, so that Fred and Alec also could dance. The joy was unrestrained, but not, he thought, too buoyant or raucous. The bomb that had been successfully detonated with only a mild explosion the previous day was still on everyone's mind. But the sound of that orchestra was heard on the streets of Poplar, even if that Reel was no more than eight minutes long.

He shuddered mildly. He had heard the echoes of that detonation while having a tea with Shelagh and Timothy on the day before Christmas Eve. There was a distant rumble. The bomb group had been working on that dud for two days, and Shelagh had lived with them all that time. Her golden head in the grey morning light was always the sight he first checked when he came downstairs. Yes, he had been sleeping rather badly, always the first up, and yes, he had quickly acquired the habit of watching his Sleeping Beauty on the sofa. He had a knack of opening that sitting room door silently. The doors in the Turner residence had always been well oiled because he, the doctor on call at all hours, wanted to be able to move around the house without waking anyone.

At that noise of explosion, he had winced and he had seen Shelagh's astonished look. Soon, the knock on the door rescued him from his apparent discomfort, and they all took the glad tidings of Fred with pleasure:

"The bomb didn't hurt anyone and the material damage was limited to one or two walls of the nearby houses. So, doctor, everything is all right, then, ain't it?" Fred had said, albeit with a slight question in his voice.

"Yes, Fred, everything is all right."

"Are you sure, doc?"

"Quite sure, Fred."

Now Shelagh looked from one to another. Fred quickly continued with fresh pomp and circumstance:

"So we are on our way to the wedding, then, with full steam ahead! No need for concern, Shelagh, there's enough cake-and our orchestra will be playing!"

"Oh, it is now an orchestra! I only wanted some violin playing. Keep it simple, Fred. For me, " Shelagh pleaded.

"At your service, madam. But me and Timothy thought that you should have a proper sendoff for your honeymoon. No worry. You shall enjoy it."

He left whistling by himself. The tune was "_Get Me To The Church On Time"._

So the sendoff for their honeymoon had been that Reel, perhaps a bit more grandiose than Shelagh had wished for, but she danced, by Jove, she danced that Reel with delight, Patrick mused. In the final round, the eight-some circles suddenly gave way to one big circle and the happy couple were forced to jig and jive in the center of that circle, to furious clapping and stomping. That was a glorious end to the small wedding, and the glorious honeymoon that followed...Patrick smiled. Oh, what the heck, he decided to jump over the next puddle with two high dance steps. He felt a deep need to yodel, but was wise enough to camouflage that into whistling "_I Could Have Danced All Night"._ Loud and clear, though.

Suddenly he became aware that someone was watching him. He had arrived at the Church Square, and he could see the benevolent face of Sr Julienne and the grumpy one of Sr Evangelina, sitting high on the steps. He stopped, somewhat aghast. But they waved at him.

"Come now, Doctor. Come and hear our news, " Sr Evangelina commanded from the upper steps.

He approached them with a slightly taken look, and hoped that they had not seen his entire dance show. But their serious faces silenced him immediately.

"What is the matter?" he queried.

Sr Evangelina gave a grunt. "Even though you might have a life of constant _Ceilidh _in your sacred marital home, similar delights are not granted to every soul on earth."

He managed to make the shade of blush on his face vanish by watching his shoes. Then he met the serene, but sad eyes of Sr Julienne.

"You see, Dr Turner, the Nonnatus House will be demolished this week. Not in two month's time, as was the original intention. That dud bomb seems to have deteriorated the weak founding to such a degree that we are declared homeless - for a time being. We have a temporary shelter at the Tennis Club where we spent the three nights of the bomb scare."

Sr Julienne's grace over the disruptions of life did not fail, but Patrick could see she was shaken. Feeling a bit guilty, having secured for himself their ablest Sister as a wife, he eagerly offered his help with the Council and other authorities to speed up the re-housing.

"Thank you, Doctor. I knew we could always rely on you. Would you tell Shelagh that the house is to be demolished on Friday? I am sure she would like to know."

Suddenly Patrick felt dizzy. He could see in his mind the clouds of concrete, feel how the duster irritated his eyes, smell gun powder and oil and hear the sound of crashing. He had to sit down. Sr Julienne put her arm on his. Sr Evangelina, a veteran of the East End bombings, was also concerned:

"Doctor, this is not as bad as the bombings. It will be a very well organized demolition. Engineers are in charge. It will be a clear, small wound in the community. It will heal fast..." Her demeanor was mild, for Sr Evangelina. She knew. She had been through the blast and the fire herself.

"Thank you, Sister. I was feeling a bit faint. It brings me back to..." he halted.

"Italy..?" asked Sr Julienne gently. He nodded, without being able to speak. "Do not worry too much, Doctor. Everything will be all right. "_All shall be well"..."_

Patrick harrumphed. He was acquainted with the near-fatalistic faith of this good Sister, something that his late wife had partially shared. His present wife...he was just so desperate that she would be all right.

Sr Julienne seemed to have telepathic skills. " It will also be all right for Shelagh, Doctor. Do not doubt that."

"Thank you, sister. I hope so, too. " They departed their ways. Patrick's last leg to home was considerably more subdued. When he came home, he embraced Shelagh tightly.

"What is it, love?" she asked, astonished, trying to interpret this sudden desperation.

"I have just met Sr Julienne and Sr Evangelina..."

The domestic comfort of their home was such, not to speak of the comfort of their marital bed, that Patrick for once slept soundly that night. At 7 am they were woken up by the telephone ringing. It was Trixie for Dr Turner.

"I see, I will come at once," Patrick said. He started to dress. "It is Alan Bridges. The malaria patient. His wife has recently given birth, and it seems to have upset him. "

Shelagh furrowed her brow. "Why would a birth aggravate malaria...?"

"Oh, he has a lot of other symptoms, too. You know he fought in Italy. Sorry, I mean Korea. Of course Korea. He was in National Service there. Have to go. Bye love. " And with a quick kiss he was gone. Shelagh leaned back in bed. She had a studious look and she heaved a sigh.


	3. Chapter 3

**For the purposes of this story, I have placed Nurse Patsy Mount as a permanent nurse at the Nonnatus earlier than in the series. and obviously, I have non-canon storylines for Trixie and the Bridges family.**

**3. Shelagh's New Rules**

In religious life, you keep on with the prayer even when your life is in chaos, Shelagh recalled.

In marital life, you keep on with the chaos, even when you deeply love someone. The electricity of their relationship, the satisfaction, the fun, the unfamiliarity with the other's habits...there was so much to be joyous or exasperated of. Never in her life could she have imagined it could be like this. The sense of adventure seemed to fill her, not that she had been a shy nun ever. She could have been a bit slow and anxious with the big change in her life, but that was due also to the TB. Basically, she was a steady girl. But she could be...bold. Even in the face of adversity.

There were truly some moments. And there were moments when she felt like: "what was that about", and felt a little helpless.

There were the encounters at 6 am or 7 am when he found her in the kitchen after his calls, and his insistence of frying the bacon and eggs for her himself. Odd, but enjoyable.

There was the experience of mixed gender bathroom, with socks drying, shaving lotions and the knock on the door when SHE was in the bath, accompanied with incredulous queries of "how on earth does that take so long? Didn't Sr Evangelina ever complain of your long baths?"

"Yes, she did. I have a long experience with this kind of harassment. Wait for your turn!" (The answer was a disgruntled chortle.).

There were those moments. Like when she found herself the object of an apparent longing gaze on a long and dark winter night, after Timothy had gone to bed. In the light of the electric heater and only some lamps, he confessed that he could still pine for her, as if she were somehow unattainable.

"But I am not. I am here."

"Yes, I know. In our sitting room. Amazing."

"You're...so insistent in your adoration, " she complained with some mischief.

" Yes. And you...and you still would beg for more*," he teased her.

"Patrick. I think the begging was totally on your side."

"Now what are we talking about...?" he egged her on, with a dangerous twinkle in his eye.

"Oh, the Reel of course. OF COURSE. The dancing. And you still beg me to learn to waltz."

Suddenly she turned serious.

"Oh, my goodness!" she cried out.

"What, Mrs. Turner? Does your memory fail when and where you were begging?"

"No. It fails in another matter. I've forgotten Tim's lunch bag-"

He blurted out some hysterical guffaws. "Oh my Mrs. Turner. My dear Mrs. Turner. I love you."

It was the continuing chain of the important and the mundane, the dazzling and the comfortable, the exasperating and the...passionate. Her new life was truly a right road for her, she felt. She liked it.

Once, when she had come to his surgery to bring new flowers, his mouth had turned to an o-shaped form when he saw her and he had raised his brows. A low whistle was heard.

"What?"

"Your skirt."

"My skirt. You old devil. But it is pretty fetching, isn't it?"

"You could say so. If we weren't at the surgery..."

"What?"

"I would draw you in my lap and..."

"Better stop there, my good Doctor. On your best behavior, please."

"You seem to enjoy some of my worst behavior. At home."

"The time and the place. That's the key. The time and the place. But when I went to buy this one I just might have found a pretty little something ELSE to wear. Tonight. At home."

He stood up and drew her close. He let his head rest on her shoulder. She could hear and feel his ragged breath.

"You are a lovely and a generous woman. Have I ever said that?"

"A million times..."

"And very bad, too."

Shelagh laughed and wangled herself out of his arms and fled to the door. At the door she turned around and added with a breathy tone: "And when she was bad she was so very, very bad..."

Next morning, she woke up after him. In the dim light, the memory of the night still stirring a warm sensation in her body, she saw him watching her with such tenderness that she had an urge to turn away. He saw her confusion.

"Hush, hush, little baby. "

He caressed her chin, stroked it with his long fingers, with a melancholy smile on his face.

"You know what I would like to see as my last glimpse of this world, when I die and everything fades away?" he said.

"What, my love?" He didn't often talk like this. Shelagh knew that her religion was still a source of wonderment to him. He was so realistic, a medical man to his core, with just tiny bits of romance and other-worldliness in him. A good egg.

"I would like to see your jaw line, trembling with pleasure."

She hid her face into the crook of his neck. He kissed her hair.

"What a thing to say, Patrick. To a former nun. "

"Yes. To a former nun. Now my personal nun. The bodyguard of my soul!"

They started to giggle.

Yet there were different kinds of moments of truth as well. After his urgent call to see Mr. Bridges, she went to the Community Centre by herself in the morning.

She saw Trixie and Patsy coming in with Patrick. It seems it was a long night at the Bridges'.

She heard Trixie saying:

"It is not the blood. It is his tremor. That is his chief problem now."

Patrick said: "All right, I will call Dr Hatton" and vanished to his surgery.

Patsy left for Nonnatus House, but Trixie went to the kitchen, took herself some tea and sat by Shelagh.

"Trixie, how was it...? At the Bridges', I mean."

"Well. It seems Mr. Bridges needs psychiatric help."

There was a silence as the normally exuberant Trixie seemed bothered with something.

"Trixie, what is it?" Shelagh asked.

Trixie gave a wry smile. "Sorry, I am...not always in the best mood after gigs like this. My father fought in Flanders. He was a longtime sufferer of shell shock. - -I just wondered how it is that something good, like the birth of a son, can trigger such...a collapse in a war veteran. You know that Mr. Bridges was in Korea."

"Yes, I have heard about that."

"It is just so similar to...me and my Dad. My Dad... he seemed pretty all right - until we children were born. There are three of us. Then he started to...fall back into the old days. Dr Turner always says it is the repetition in the mind that keeps the wounds from healing."

"He has said that? You've talked of...your father with him?"

Trixie gave her a look. "No, I talked Alan Bridges with him. Dr Turner seems fairly well trained in recognizing...shell shock. Or other psychiatric disorders." Trixie paused. Then she continued in a slightly altered, neutral voice: " Surely you have seen that? You have known him longer than I. I mean as a doctor. "

"Yes. Now that you say that, I can recall some...cases."

That was that. For the time being. She was not ready to go further on the topic with Trixie. She had seen cases where Dr Turner had made some positive interventions with patients needing psychiatric help. It was just that...he wasn't her husband then. The intricacies of marriage, its unseen fabric seemed to become more translucent and compelling to her with this observation. It really makes a difference, these vows.

* My Fair Lady:

_I could have danced all night! _  
_I could have danced all night! _  
_And still have begged for more. _  
_I could have spread my wings _  
_And done a thousand things I've never done before. _  
_I'll never know What made it so exciting;_  
_Why all at once My heart took flight. I only know when he _  
_Began to dance with me I could have danced, _  
_danced, danced all night! _


	4. Chapter 4

**That Scarf**

Those moments hard to define...there certainly was one. Once, Patrick was frantically dashing around the house.

"Where is... my scarf?" he shouted.

"Why don't you take a coat? It is really cold today."

"No, It is only a nip. I need my scarf."

Timothy appeared with something red and shiny in his hands.

"Dad, the scarf that Mummy gave you, it is again in the bathroom. You should..."

"...take better care of your stuff. Touché. Thanks, son."

"What does 'touché' mean?"

"Ermmm...it means 'point taken'. 'An arrow shot to the centre'.' A valid complaint'. 'Well-deserved'..."

"Oh, you pedant. I just asked. I don't need the whole DICTIONARY...!"

So it is one of those things. What Moira had left as her legacy. She was starting to wonder how many of those she still did not know and would have to dig out. She sighed. The Turner boys were a hilarious lot, but it seemed that the directness that was typical for Timothy was inherited from his mother. Patrick seemed always to prefer subtexts and double-meanings. He was the edgy one.

Shelagh's mind went further back. Timothy had been such a brick. The only disagreements with him were with the music practice and TV watching. He'd prefer TV watching both to his homework and music practice. Shelagh preferred music practice as better accompaniment for making dinner than the corny TV programs. So they had often a gentle fight about that.

He had even solved the question of how to address her in his straightforward way. After some weeks of awkward Auntie Shelagh, or worse still, only Shelagh (that made his father give him some stern looks), he had one day asked if Colin could come in to see his Spitfire model before a cub meeting. Permission granted, he proudly presented them to Colin: here's my Mum and Dad. After that, it was just Mum. At that moment, Patrick had grinned at her, taken her by the shoulders and whispered to her ear: "Welcome to the family. Again."

Sometime in early March, having already to some extent settled to her position as a wife and a competent secretary at the Clinic, she was once again rattled by a conversation she accidentally overheard. It was between Patsy and her husband, They probably didn't notice her, as she was organizing the choir's music sheets in the corner of the Community Centre hall. It was a late Friday afternoon, and she had for once decided to skip The Lone Ranger with Timothy for a session with the choir music cupboard.

She had heard some noise in the hall. First one door and then another. The her husband's voice was heard, in merry but polite tones:

"'_Mirror mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all'_...Still checking, Nurse Mount?"

"No, Dr Turner. I think I have all the answers to that, thank you." She was laughing equally politely. Shelagh felt an odd pang of something. She had to inhale fast. What is this? Was she... a bit jealous? She knew how well Patrick got on with the nurses, and with the new recruits, he often made an effort to make them welcome.

Oh, a marriage could be...darn complicated. She recalled how she had heard Sr Evangelina once say how she was glad that she had taken the vows when she was irritated with Chummy and Peter. She had thought it funny then. It was too late for that now. To be alive, to feel like this...Her mouth twitched a little, like always when she came across something she didn't like. She would conquer this, surely.

Besides, she knew that Nurse Mount had a habit of checking that old, small mirror of hers. It seemed to be a keepsake, as it was not a very good mirror. It was cracked. She had once asked about that, as even she, inexperienced as she was, could see that Nurse Mount was a fashion-conscious young woman.

"Oh, this is an old keepsake. It gives me strength to look at it sometimes."

It seems Patrick was now wondering the same thing.

"What do you need the strength for, this time? If I may ask?"

"Yes, I was just coming to talk to you about it. It is Mr. Bridges. I have been to see him today. It seems not very good, I am afraid. I think you should call Dr Hatton again..."

"What is it? Is it the smells, the sounds, the nightmares?"

"I am afraid all of it. He is very good with his small son, though. It is odd, I think. That sturdy lad seems to be his point of focus in the world. So...you will contact Dr Hatton?"

Yes. By the way thank you, I found the scarf on my desk. Apparently you pick up my things."

"No problem. That scarf...seems to be very important to you, if I may say so. " Then she paused. " Like my mirror. Perhaps I should tell you. It is my remnant of the ...old life. A keepsake from my family. All I managed to keep with me when I was interned to a prison camp. In Singapore. During the war."

Patrick was silent for a long time. Then he said in that voice that seemed to reveal nothing, always an alien sound to Shelagh.

"So that is where you got that aptitude with psychiatric problems. I am sorry. I should not have joked about the mirror."

"On the contrary, I could have told sooner. It is just...the bomb scare was such a ...trigger."

"Yes. For me too." It seemed they had reached some kind of understanding.

"That scarf...that was a present from my first wife. It is Italian."

"Oh yes, it looks very fine. Nice embroidery." Patsy seemed to have recalled an appointment in the city, and she left rather abruptly.

Shelagh pulled herself together. He had not...betrayed her in any manner. He had promised to talk of...Italy with her. Sometime later. Was this the "sometime later" he meant? There was still a kind of pact between them, perhaps a legacy from the previous times when she was a nun. A pact of silent understanding to follow your instincts when to speak. It seems that in a marriage, there are not always such instinctively felt moments.

She must compose herself. She decided to talk with him soon.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Echoes of an Explosion**

The next Monday, Dr Hatton was seen to visit Patrick's surgery, near its last hour. After he left, Shelagh had to visit Patrick to get his interpretation of his handwriting. Again. She smiled. She had had such a training in this when she finally read the sixteen letters she had received from him at the sanatorium. Yet she sometimes failed to understand his writing. As she was sure there was no patient there, she entered the room directly without knocking.

"Is this erythromycin or clarithromycin...your handwriting... again." Then she stopped. Patrick was sitting there slumped, his head in his hands and he was trembling.

Shelagh made a quick decision, even though it was still the surgery hours. She went to lock the door.

Patrick looked at her, surprised and anguished. He seemed unable to say anything. She walked to his side and stroked his head.

"Please, draw me into your lap, " she gently asked.

"Yes. Oh yes." He did that and buried his face into her bosom. He swallowed a lump. Then there was a long silence.

"What is it? Mr. Bridges?"

"Yes. He isn't improving. Dr Hatton just called. He's going to send him...to Northfield."

"Isn't that a very good hospital?"

"Yes, it is one of the best. I have a good reason to know."

"You mean Frank Higginson? Your friend who is a psychiatrist? Isn't he a doctor there?"

"Yes, that too. I mean, precisely that. And Italy. He was with me in Italy, in the army. That too."

"What do you mean, that too?" She decided to speak directly . "I am sorry, I wasn't eavesdropping on Friday, but I happened to overhear a small bit of your conversation with Patsy. I didn't know your lovely scarf is Italian."

"Yes. Yes it is. Moira gave it to me...as a present...on my discharge."

"You mean discharge from the army?"

He drew a breath. This was his responsibility now. His marriage. His new marriage. When he wrote those letters to her at the sanatorium he had to summon all his courage. They had to find a way, he felt. He had to write so carefully, so as not to coerce her. He just felt that a clarity would help her too. Now here she was, and he was enjoying all the privileges that he had been once been so shy to ask. Her company, her love. She was his, and yet they were two different persons, with so different histories.

"No. On my discharge...from Northfield. I was a patient there. For four months. In 1945."

Now it had been said. He felt unreasonably relieved. Whatever came of this, this must be a step into the future. No more nightmares.

Shelagh was silent for a while. Then she cupped his head into both of her hands and made him watch her. Her gaze was anxious and serious.

"Darling. Really?"

"A shell shock . After an explosion in Italy. I still like the name 'shell shock' more than...war neurosis. Higginson, Horinger and me, we had a comrade. A fourth partner in our medical corps. Dr Hatton. The elder brother of this one at the London. He died."

"Patrick, why haven't you told me before? Of course I knew that you knew this Dr Hatton, but this..."

He was still blabbering, like he hadn't heard what she said.

"Higginson, Horinger, Hatton & Turner. The Three Musketeers and D'Artagnan. That's what we called ourselves. Oh, you should have heard us laugh together. We had so many happy times before the war...Sorry dear, what did you say...?"

She decided to skip the hard questions. "I just said, it is good to know about this."

Patrick kept on talking and his right hand started to fidget the papers and the pens on his desk. "You know, the experience in Italy was one reason Higginson took up psychiatry. He was wounded in that explosion. As was Ted Horinger. Sam Hatton died. Frank and Ted were wounded, Sam died and I...survived with a few scratches."

"Not with just a few scratches."

But Patrick didn't seem to hear. "It was late April in 1945. The earth was smelling, and the flowers... It was our second wedding anniversary with Moira. The date of the explosion, I mean. "

Then he stopped. "Sorry, my love. I seem to be no good at talking about this." He was trying to pull himself together. "What time is it? Do we still have patients?"

Shelagh caressed his hair. "No, I cancelled them".

Patrick sighed.

" I...I think this is all that I can handle today. "

"I can understand that. But we've made a start."

Patrick stared into a distance. He didn't seem to recognize the quotation. Shelagh felt tears in her eyes. How many starts there would be? How many things still left unsaid?

Then he came to his senses. He squeezed her hand and gave it a kiss.

"We will make as many starts as we need to. I promise you. All right?"

"All right."


	6. Chapter 6

_**For the purposes of this story, the cub meetings take place no more at the Community Centre. If they ever did?**_

**Too Much and Not Enough**

"Fred, I think it is time. "

"Time for what, Mrs Turner?"

"I need to learn to waltz."

* * *

The months after the revelation of Patrick's war time experiences had been slogging away. Shelagh was trying to connect the dots. To be fair, Patrick had been telling her bits and pieces during their relationship, and now he was striving hard to find a way for them forward.

There was that letter he had written to her at the sanatorium.

She had been so elated with the tone of the letters, and to be fair, she had been so in love that she had probably not been able to read all the messages in them.

_"To make an evaluation for treatment, you have to know the patient. I am not sure if I know you. But from the privilege of working with you for 10 years, I dare to suggest that you stick to the things that have carried you so far-your courage and your kindness. I could also talk of your intelligence and sense of humour, or your steadfastness-which is not to be confused with rigidity. And finally: your faith. You must know that I am not good at talking about faith or church- but I have recognized its importance in healing and convalescence in my patients. One day I may be able to tell you a longer tale of my view on convalescence, from my personal viewpoint. "_

He had told of his afternoons, having a late breakfast, his favourite meal of the day, and how he enjoyed watching the street life of Poplar, so lively and so far away from the chaos of war. She had even heard some overtones of his grief over Moira when he had written about his not so well-hidden pride of Timothy's school reports and how Timothy, kind as he ever was, was asking how Sr Bernadette was. He had confessed that he had few people in his life he could talk of Timothy. He also told the expectations of the Nonnatus House nurses of her quick return to home and that she would again "be the help and the support you have always been in this community to all of us, but especially to me." Conchita Warren had especially asked after "her favourite nurse" and he had expressed his modest wish that it would not be too forward to say he shared Mrs. Warren's thoughts. That letter was signed, for the first time, y_our colleague and your friend, Patrick Turner._

_"We started out in silence. Not able to speak. After I dared to write to you, I thought: Have I said too much or not enough."_

That is how he had seen their relationship at the beginning. It was true, she thought, although her inhibitions were a bit different than he had imagined. Tuberculosis and Moira's death had been the big shadows over them, not her being a nun as such. Or so she thought, and she was happy that she had been able to talk of this, finally.

* * *

Patrick was straddling along a Poplar street on a Wednesday night, having an unexpected gap in his schedule when a patient had failed to turn up. He decided to visit his favourite cafe for some fried bread. It had been a long day and his supper would have to be some kind of snack. Shelagh, after some encouragement from him, had started to attend the Nonnatus House Evensong on Wednesdays when he had his evening surgery and Tim had his cub meeting.

Over that fried bread, a comfort food from his days of widowerhood, he focused his eyes to an approaching pair in the street. They were having a happy conversation. Shelagh and the young vicar Tom Hereward.

Of course he knew that Tom attended the Nonnatus House prayers sometimes.

Patrick had suddenly an odd moment of uncertainty, tinged with the slightest shade of jealousy. Naturally, Shelagh could talk with the Vicar easily, they shared a common faith. He hadn't really thought about their differences in this field before. Not even when they were engaged. Now when she was his wife, these questions seemed to emerge with a new force. What a difference those vows make, he thought with wonder.

She had been admirable about his psychiatric hospital history. She had taken that with equanimity which brought to his mind Sister Bernadette and her stoic endurance. He sighed. That is just what nagged him: was he asking too much of her? It was also true that Shelagh and Tom looked like a well-matched pair, much more suited with each other in age, in size, in beliefs and in temperament. Patrick felt an ache returning, a reminder from the past times when he agonized over his feelings over a disease-ridden young nun.

He had tried to talk of their age difference before. Shelagh had gently reminded him that he wasn't the reason why she left the Order. There were other considerations in that: his being old or young, agnostic or widower were not one of them.

"I think I was called. You don't need to know all that it entails, or you don't need to have similar beliefs as I do. It is true that I was longing for something, even before I really became...entangled with you. But the events, we really do not create them. We are the response. "

He wasn't quite sure what she meant. Her manner of talking religion pleased him, though.

He remembered the stunning response to his offhand pleading to have some of her faith, when the Kelly baby had died without any explanation. He had nothing to offer her, except his wish that she would have tea with him. She had declined this. He had watched that blue habit vanish to the dining hall. Although he didn't realize it at the time, he had seen his first true glimpse of Shelagh.

It had also pierced his heart when she had confessed that she had no clear answers for what is forgivable or unforgivable. By that small lapse of a phrase, his hopes had been kept alive even when every other sign showed otherwise.

Now they were married, and Sister Bernadette was in the past. Shelagh's future lay in his hands and he hoped to give her and her life the consideration and support she deserved. It was his privilege and his responsibility.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Unbearable Oddness of the Adults (this chapter borrows something from Kathryn Wemyss's Timothy Turner and the Entertainment Badge, Ch 7. Thank you.)**

Timothy knew that something was changed. Not in him, or for him, but around him. The house had become more alive after Shelagh had moved in, that was not new, but now this vibrancy had a new level of comfort in it. It seemed that there were some intensive conversations between his Mum and Dad and individual moments of not only comfort but tension. Yet Mum seemed to go around the house with more self-confidence, cleaning and dusting in a happy manner and asking his view on several pieces of furniture and what their history was and where they could be moved. She still could make a pretty good argument about the virtues of music practice, but didn't seem to mind his lunch bag or schedule in a quite so anxious manner as earlier. She had also started to visit the Evensong on Wednesdays at the Nonnatus House regularly. That had been something his Dad had urged her to do for sometime. Timothy suspected that it was because he felt Shelagh missed the Sisters. When he was at home, Dad had fallen back to some old habits of his, like falling asleep while watching the TV or even reading a newspaper. Mum would not let Timothy to wake him up:

"Shhh...it is good for him to take a nap, because he does not always sleep very well."

She seemed totally complacent of this, and his other odd habits. Timothy wondered if she knew of his frequent breakfasts around the Poplar cafes? He sometimes missed their man-to-man talks over fried bread, although Shelagh's cooking was very superior to all the snacks he used to share with his Dad.

Once, when he visited the bathroom downstairs at night, he saw the sitting room door ajar and his Dad there Mum in his arms. Her head was resting on his chest. The adults could be odd. Why don't they go to bed when they are clearly so tired? Timothy tried not to take notice of them, as they seemed blissfully unaware of his presence in the hall.

He couldn't help hearing some bits of their conversation.

"Oh, your beige overcoat. It is back from the cleaner."

"I remember you wearing that coat."

She seemed to snicker at this."I love that coat. Like you love that scarf..."

"The armours for our frail bodies. Or souls." Patrick kept a long silence. Then he said with a certain deliberateness:

"Shelagh, the scarf...I really should use a coat now. I think I could use just that coat now."

"Your wardrobe choices are up to you. On the condition you keep on loving me..."

"Thanks. Didn't you already give my red-and-green tie to charity box? So that pretty much covers my control over my wardrobe...". They had a fit of laughter which they tried to subdue.

Oh, the adults. Their nonsensical talk. Timothy climbed upstairs, and just at that moment when the sleep finally caught him, he had a remote recollection of Sister Bernadette in the wrong cloths with his Dad's coat on her. Such a long time that was...

* * *

If Timothy had come down earlier he would have heard the earlier part of those confessions.

"That scarf...It was to commemorate the day of deliverance. An alternative anniversary to our original wedding day. So, you see, we were in the habit of making starts. As many as we needed. Moira was good at that. She had the resilience that Timothy has inherited. I was always more inflexible. But it grew on me, this thing that the mind has the ability to bend...to imaginative love. To imaginative acts of love and remembrance. "

"Or as someone wise said: G_od is not in the event. God is in the response to that event."_

"That sounds...true."

_"Believe that you have received it, and it will be yours._"

"Yes. Something like that. My reverend wife talking..."

"Sister Julienne, this time. And Jesus in the second case." The laughter triggered by this didn't end until Patrick pinched her hard.

"Keep this serious, my girl, or..."

"Oh, to obey my husband, that I will. With regard to laughter." She became thoughtful again. "Remember that I am inclined make my own rules for this life that came after the Order. Making as many starts as it needs to sounds good to me."

"I am touched by that. Touched and relieved."


	8. Chapter 8

**The Waltz Is Out**

The next Wednesday evening Patrick was again out in the Poplar streets to have a cup of coffee. This time he walked past the Community Centre and heard loud dance music from an open window. What on earth was happening?

From the other side of street he could see the tall frame of Patsy Mount dancing with someone. He decided he had to pop in and check what was taking place.

The sounds of a serene waltz by Strauss were accompanied by Fred's army voice. "ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three...".

He opened the door and took a breath at the threshold while watching the scene. Fred and Shelagh were dancing together.

Then he cleared his throat.

The dancers stopped and looked at him astonished.

He waved his hand. "Hello. A nice party...?"

Shelagh recovered first. "Oh, you spoiled a surprise. Why are you not at that cafe...?" she blurted out.

"So. You know that I hang there instead of going home?" he said.

"Of course I know. I know you. Well, it doesn't matter. Please, meet Fred and Ginger, at your service, waltzing. Fred and Patsy are teaching us to dance, I mean."

"I should have guessed. It seems I have to thank you again, Fred, for teaching my wife to dance."

The truth was, that during his time at war, his time at Northfield and even after that, Fred and his 16-year-old Dolly had acted as guardian angels to Moira. Or vice versa. Moira had helped with the evacuating of the lonesome Dolly to the country after the bombings had killed her other family, and she had kept an eye on her. Both families had suffered in the war, and it seemed that the temperament of the lively Fred wasn't made for silent grieving. He needed some action, and after a while he went back to the dance halls and dragged Moira and Dolly with him. He really could cut a rug, and Moira had no heart to say no to him when he wanted to teach her to dance. It had been a great help for her, too. Patrick had been drawn in to this informal therapy group after he came home, and this is when his love for waltz had begun. It was for him the ultimate dance. As Fred said, it was about protection. He had not been able to save Moira from all the aches and sorrows in this world, but he could waltz with her. This practice of non-verbal convalescence helped both families, and it had quietly ended only with the birth of Timothy and the marriage of Dolly.

Back to the presence. Shelagh looked lovely in high heels and a wide skirt. Patrick felt his eyes grow misty.

Immersed in this emotion, Patrick was slow to notice the other man on the floor. Vicar Tom Hereward.

So this was where they went so happily together.

"So, what is your strategic plan, Tom? You intend to shock your parish with your newly-acquired dancing skills?" he asked.

Shelagh snorted. "Oh Patrick. You have had your head in the clouds and in the past histories a bit too much recently. It is for Trixie, of course."

Patrick shook his head in disbelief and laughed. "No, I hadn't heard of that. To tell the truth, I saw you and Tom together the other day, obviously coming here. I didn't know that my devious wife, supposedly praying and having tea with the nuns at Nonnatus, had joined a commando group to conquer the heart and the stiletto feet of Nurse Franklin."

"The things we do, we men, for our women," sighed Tom, light-heartedly. "I offered her a Bible group but that didn't strike a right note."

"So, now that you are here, Doctor, you can take a swing with your lady wife?" asked Fred.

Patrick walked slowly to Shelagh and smiled wanly. He put his one arm around her waist and took her by the hand. Her eyes shone brightly and her lips trembled. She leaned unto him, so that she could whisper in his ear:

"Still begging for more, my Doctor?"

Patrick felt an urge to lift her up and swing her around in his arms. Instead he bit his lip, to repress the need to laugh aloud and responded:

"Still begging. Till death us do part."

* * *

After some delicious moments of waltzing, Shelagh stopped rather abruptly.

"What is it?" Patrick asked.

"There's something I'd like to do."

"What, dear?"

"I'd like to have some breakfast. Preferably some fried bread. At Caprioni's."

"Good for you! Let's do that."

"And let's take Timothy, too."

"Yes. We will do that."


End file.
